


road-trip recovery

by izabellwit



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure, Tangled (2010), Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Botany, Crime Fighting, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Forgiveness, Gen, It makes sense in context I swear, Post-Canon, Redemption, Tangled Secret Santa 2018, post-redemption, this is literally just a medieval road-trip of healing friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izabellwit/pseuds/izabellwit
Summary: Quirin is alive, Varian is (sorta) pardoned and (kinda??) redeemed, but all is not well in the kingdom of Corona, and in order to complete his task, Varian must seek the help of one prickly (and unforgiving) guard—Cassandra. Mission: give Quirin a housewarming gift is a go!!!!…Wait, what?





	road-trip recovery

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wonderful DJ-chan, in the 2018 Tangled Secret Santa event. Happy holidays, my friend, and I hope this story lives up to all your expectations! ❤️

 

Varian isn’t lost.

He’s not, not even a little bit, no matter how loudly Ruddiger chatters in his ear or how unfamiliar the corridors look. He knows exactly where he’s going! He’s been in the castle a million times before, just like this, sneaking under the guards’ noses. He even kidnapped and escaped with a queen once, and sure, he isn’t doing that _now_ , but the fact remains: Varian is not lost, he knows where he is, and he can absolutely do this.

Pressed flat against a white-washed stone wall, Varian peeks his head around a corner, searching for guards. The halls are unfamiliar but open and generally empty thus far, long hallways with plush red carpet and windows that stretch from ceiling to floor, corner to corner. Early morning sunlight shines bright and golden through the glass, staining the dust motes pale yellow and illuminating every shadowy corner. It makes it difficult for Varian to sneak around—but it also makes it easier for him to check if the cost is clear.

No guards around this corner, at least. Varian steps out and makes his way cautiously down this new hall, doing his best to keep his steps small and soft, footsteps muffled by the carpet, his breathing shallow and thin. He can’t hear anything, or anyone, not yet—but he knows better than to assume it will last. Castles rarely stay empty.

Still, the silence is more worrisome than comforting, and not just for Varian. From his perch on Varian’s shoulder, Ruddiger croons low and concerned at his shaking, small claws pricking through Varian’s shirt. Varian lifts one hand and pats his raccoon softly on the head in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

“Shhhh, bud. I know what I’m doing.”

The doleful look Ruddiger gives him in response to this says otherwise. It’s the same look the raccoon gets whenever Varian hides his ham sandwiches from Ruddiger’s greedy paws, however, so Varian doesn’t put much stock in it. Possibly Ruddiger thinks this is a bad plan—possibly, he’s just hungry.

“We’ll find her,” Varian assures him, half for Ruddiger’s sake but mostly for his own. “I can navigate one stupid castle. And I’m very persuasive! She’ll definitely agree to help!”

Possibly. Maybe. Hopefully? Varian isn’t exactly sure they’re _friends,_ but then, they aren’t exactly enemies anymore, and he hasn’t tried to blow anything up in months. So he’s pretty sure he’s still on her good side, at least as much as he can be. Then again, Varian has tried to kill her a few times… two years ago, the first time; and then a few months after that, and a few months after _that…_

No, no. The villain thing is all ancient history now. She’ll help him. She’s a good person, Varian knows, and they were friends once—and things are better now, anyway, even if they aren’t quite great. She had agreed to let him fight alongside them, after all, way back when Corona was threatened and everything was falling apart. She trusts him that much, at least, to watch her back. So—that’s something, isn’t it?

He hopes so. It would really suck to have come all this way for nothing. He’d spent _hours_ sewing up that dummy.

“It’s going to work out just fine,” Varian announces anyway, despite his doubts, trying to make himself sound like he means it. “She’ll help. And even if she doesn’t, I… I… I can go anyway! On my own, if I’ve gotta. I can definitely do it.”

Ruddiger chitters at him like a concerned parent and, when Varian just stares back blankly, almost seems to sigh. A cold nose pokes the back of Varian’s neck and Ruddiger shuffles around atop his shoulders, getting comfortable. The raccoon settles with a soft huff, his fluffy ringed tail tickling at Varian’s cheek.

Varian wrinkles his nose and tries his best not to sneeze. “I’ll find her,” he mutters sourly, voice strained from holding his breath. If he sneezes, the game is done, the guards alerted—and Varian can’t afford to fail. “I _will.”_

He probably looks ridiculous, standing here like this: shoulders stiff and back straight, held tall and still like a toy shoulder. His whole face scrunched up in an effort to keep quiet, scowling and muttering at the air in a tight little voice like a child.

Varian drops his shoulders and sighs. Then he sneezes so hard he almost falls over.

 

-

 

By some miracle, the guards don’t hear Varian sneezing down the halls, and he remains undetected. His luck, however, only expands so far. His scramble to find a new hiding place (coupled with Ruddiger’s frantic attempts to remain perched on his shoulder) only lead him deeper into the twisting and twining halls of the castle. At this point, Varian is more lost—ah, _misguided_ —than ever, and _still_ , his target is no-where in sight.

Varian cannot believe he managed to successfully kidnap the Queen from this place. How had he gotten in? How had he gotten _out?_ It’s as if Varian is only lucky when he’s evil, which is incredibly annoying if it’s true. What the heck, Universe.

Ruddiger croons at him, once again concerned by whatever expression Varian is making. Varian shakes his head hard enough to send his bangs smacking his face, trying to focus, and forces himself to take a deep breath. Right, okay—calm, stay calm. Stay collected.

_I can do this. It’s just one person—how hard can it be?_

As it turns out… absurdly hard. _Why_ are there so many people here? He’d known, of course, that castle population numbers ranged through the hundreds or even thousands, depending, but it’s entirely another thing to see it. There’s just… so many people. Maids, guards, cooks and squires and messengers and just— _people._ People, literally everywhere, from every corner of the globe, except for the one person he’s actually trying to find.

Kidnapping the Queen was easier than this, Varian thinks, a little stunned. Seriously, what’s with that?

At least he hasn’t run into Rapunzel. _That_ would be awkward.

Another hour of sneaking later, Varian finally admits defeat. He’s lost. He’s so very lost. All these hallways look the same, the guards are starting to catch on, and he swears he passed that statue a few hours back. He has no idea where he’s going.

 Wandering into yet again another hall that strikes him as completely unfamiliar, out of breath from ducking out of notice from a passing patrol, Varian scans the empty corridor and collapses against a column. He presses his head against cold marble, breathing through his nose, then sighs heavily and slumps to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest. The moment he settles, Ruddiger slips off his shoulders and into his lap, for once silent. Small paws bat at Varian’s long fringe.

Varian reaches out and pets Ruddiger with slow strokes, feeling oddly absent. Beneath his bare hands—always bare now, of course, his gloves taken away as a precaution—Ruddiger’s pelt is thick and bushy, silky soft against his skin. He scratches at Ruddiger’s head, digging his fingers into the tuff of fur under the raccoon’s ear, and gives a small half-smile when Ruddiger leans into the touch.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Varian confesses, at long last. His own voice is quiet to his ears, distant and soft, almost sad. He swallows against a rising knot in his throat and draws his knees up a little closer, just enough so that he doesn’t disturb Ruddiger. His breath shudders out in a sigh. “She… she doesn’t even like me much anymore, anyways… this was stupid.”

Ruddiger chitters up at him, a call for attention. Varian nods as if it’s a statement, then squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden wave of tears. “Soooo dumb,” he mumbles, a little bitter. “What was I thinking? This whole thing was such a bad idea, I don’t know why I even—”

Ruddiger chitters again, louder this time, more insistent. Varian opens his eyes, startled from his rambling. “What?” he says. Ruddiger clicks his teeth. Varian forces a weak smile and rubs at Ruddiger’s ears again.

“Buddy, c’mon, you know I don’t actually speak raccoon…”

Ruddiger leans forward and croons low at Varian, almost humming. His little paws bat at Varian’s nose, and then the raccoon jumps off his lap and scurries away. Straight down the hall. _Right in the open_.

Varian stares blankly at Ruddiger’s retreating form. Then his mind catches up, and his eyes go wide, his breath catching. The castle. The _guards_. The very unofficial and absolutely illegal hunt Varian is currently undertaking.

Ohhhhh no. Oh no, no no—

“Ruddiger!” Varian squeaks, scrambling to his feet. “Ruddiger, no! I’m not supposed to be in here at all, you’ll get us caught—”

Ruddiger doesn’t even hesitate, just rounds the far corner like a speeding cross-bolt, little claws clicking nosily on the tile. He trips and goes rolling like a bowling bowl out of sight, squeaking loudly the whole time.

Varian grips his hair and then presses both hands against his mouth, rocking back on his heels and suppressing a short scream. Then he rocks forward into a sprint and rushes after Ruddiger. His shadows flicker long and dark against the walls. He’s pretty sure the sunlight is laughing at him.

“No, no, no—”

“Ruddiger?”

_Oh, no!_

Varian hears the other voice too late to react. He rounds the corner full-speed, tries to stop, and literally feels his feet slip out from under him. Palace floors are all smooth tile, no traction on the polished stone, and his flat-sole boots don’t stand a chance. Varian slips, slides, and barrels right into the newcomer—

—and then bounces _off_ ofthem, falling flat to the floor. It’s a bit like hitting a brick wall, only face-first, and only if the brick wall was maybe two feet taller than him and wearing solid metal armor. Either way, the result is the same: the next thing he knows, Varian slams back against the floor, wheezing for breath.

“OW!”

“Hey! Who… _Oh._ Varian?”

That cool tone, that flat inflection… and when he opens his eyes, he already knows who he’ll see. Varian winces anyway. Even though he’s spent the past two hours searching for her, face-to-face the doubt rises up stronger than ever.

“…Cassi—Cassandra,” he says, correcting himself at the last second. Her eyes go narrow, catching the slip, the corner of her mouth twisting. It’s not an icy look, or even a hateful one—just uncomfortable. Varian swallows hard, cursing the habit, biting back the first comment to come to mind. He has to think his words through. Good impressions are key!

“…Hi?”

That’s, um—not what Varian meant to say. Damn it, brain.

…Has his voice always been that squeaky?

Cassandra lifts an eyebrow at him, the sort of look that says, clearly, _You are acting very strange_. She doesn’t reply right away—just sets Ruddiger down gently on the floor and then draws up to her full height, crossing her arms. One hand rests casually near the hilt of her sword. Varian tries not to notice. It’s funny, the things he once saw as swoon-worthy and now sees as terrifying. Maybe it’s the crush worn off—maybe it’s from experience.

He eyes the sword with all the wariness it deserves, even though she hadn’t touched it yet, and inches a bit further away. She doesn’t seem inclined to use it, but she also doesn’t look very impressed. He’s always reminded of that one cliché when he’s with her— _if looks could kill._ The saying is never as funny in real life experience, even if Cassandra’s feelings about Varian seem more geared towards ‘annoyance’ than ‘fight’ these days.

“Varian,” Cassandra returns, and _ohhh,_ that’s a new level of blank neutrality right there. Varian is actually kind of impressed, and he almost tells her so, but her hands shift even closer to the sword and his eyes go right back to the blade. His whole mind blares out _danger!_ like some dysfunctional alarm system. “What are you doing here?”

Varian winces at the questions, biting hard at the inside of his cheek. She doesn’t sound angry, but she doesn’t exactly sound friendly, either. How to play this? “Um…”

“Because I seem to remember you being banned from the castle.”

A nervous laugh crawls up his throat. “Well, that’s—”

“In fact, you’re banned from even exiting your house without a guard or your dad, of which I see neither.”

_I’m aware,_ Varian thinks dryly. He’s starting to sweat a bit. “Uh, you see—”

“Which makes me think,” Cassandra continues, bluntly steamrolling over his every objection, both eyebrows up near her hairline and lips thinned, “that you’ve ditched your guard, snuck into the castle, and you’ve probably been skulking about for hours now with none of us the wiser.”

Varian closes his mouth. Cassandra taps her foot. Silence reigns over the once-empty hallways.

“…I wouldn’t say I was _skulking,_ ” Varian says, finally.

Cassandra snorts. “ _I_ would.”

He gives her a nervous smile. She shifts back on her heels and uncrosses her arms to gesture. “Well?”

“I—I can explain?”

Her eyes lift to the ceiling. Not quite an eyeroll, but definitely a look of annoyance. “I’m waiting, kid.”

Varian bites nervously at his lip and tries to keep calm. At his feet, Ruddiger tugs hard at his pant leg, and the sensation drags his mind away from panic and back to calculation. Calm, calm, calm. He _does_ have a reason, and the fact she’s giving him a chance to explain at all is just proof how much things have changed, right? She’ll let him speak. Now Varian just has to say it.

“That’s—um—yes, okay, admittedly I did in fact do that, but I needed to—” He cuts himself off. “No, wait, that’s—okay, so, there’s these trees, right, and—”

Cassandra raises a hand. Varian’s mouth snaps shut, and he inhales sharply through his nose, holding his breath and biting his tongue. Well, that was a disaster.

“Sorry,” he squeaks.

Cassandra just shakes her head. “Take a breath.”

“Uh—”

“Take a breath, Varian.”

He does. She nods, then says, “Again.”

He does, again, and his hands slowly still, the tremors fading. The sharp twist of illness in his gut fades away, the flush in his cheeks cooling. The third deep breath, rattling and slow, he takes without prompting. When he exhales, his shoulders fall, tension easing away.

Cassandra nods again, then drops her hand and straightens. “Okay. Try again. _Slowly,_ this time.” A faint smile, sly and sharp, tugs at the side of her mouth. “Full offense, I’m not even going to try and decipher whatever you just said.”

Varian flushes red, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. “That’s fair. Um. Yeah, sorry, it was just—I kind of spent all day avoiding guards, so running right into _you_ was…” He trails off and totters his hand in the air like a see-saw. “Distressing? Stressful?”

“Ah,” says Cassandra. “So you freaked?”

Varian scoffs, stuttering on his next breath. “W-what? No! No, no, just, uh… I was just, um, adjusting from the… credible paranoia.”

“The… what,” Cassandra says.

“The very credible paranoia,” Varian says, “of getting caught in this castle.” He tries for a winning smile.

Cassandra doesn’t smile back, and her expression goes a little flat at his words, whatever faint laughter that remains in her expression giving way to seriousness. “…Okay, fine, whatever. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, Varian. So?”

“So?” Varian parrots, blinking; realization strikes and he bolts upright. An explanation, right, she wants one. “Oh, right! Um.” He flushes, embarrassed and a bit bitter. It shouldn’t upset him, not really—this is deserved, like most things are. Like the lifetime ban from ever entering the castle again, or the house arrest, or the required shackles whenever he enters the capital city proper. But even so, he can’t help but wish things could be different.

“I need your help.”

Cassandra pauses at this, and her expression gets a little more neutral. Varian tries not take offense—this, like everything else, is also deserved. They are not enemies. She has forgiven him, though she didn’t need to. But as a general rule, Cassandra and Varian do not interact. She does not talk to him. He doesn’t seek her out. Except now he has, and this change is probably not one she’s been expecting.

“…What?”

“I came to ask for your help,” Varian repeats, dropping his eyes to the ground, pretending he can’t feel the awkwardness set in. “I wasn’t… I didn’t… I want, I need something, for—a project. I came to ask for help.”

He holds his breath, hardly daring to wait, watching intently as Cassandra mulls over his words. Her face is oddly expressionless, strange and blank, her thoughts obscured. Her stare unsettles him, and Varian looks away, dropping to his knees for an excuse to hide his face. He holds out his arms for Ruddiger, and the raccoon scrambles into his waiting arms. Varian stands slowly, daring to glance up at Cassandra through his bangs, trying to gauge her expression.

They are not enemies, Varian reminds himself. They have not been enemies for some time. They can joke, and laugh, and even banter. But neither are they friends, and in asking for this favor, Varian knows he’s upset the careful balanced established. He’s crossed the line from ‘funny acquaintance’ to trying to make a friend, and for the life of him he has no idea how Cassandra will react.

At long last, Cassandra speaks. “You broke into the castle,” she says, slowly and with consideration. “To talk to me.”

Varian clutches Ruddiger close to his chest, grateful for the raccoon’s presence. It helps him think. Even her voice is cool, weirdly stripped of emotion, and he’s not willing to guess her thoughts. Time to babble an explanation and hope it makes sense, then.

“I… I didn’t… I know I’m allowed in the castle,” Varian starts, slowly. “But I didn’t know how else to ask, or how to reach you, and I didn’t want my dad to know or the guards to stop me. So…” He shrugs, the explanation withering on his tongue. “Yeah. Here I am.”

Cassandra doesn’t move, but something pinches at her brows, and her mouth turns down into a tight frown. “Did you hurt them?”

Varian hesitates, puzzled by the question. “Did I… what?”

Her expression is abruptly focused—not accusing, but sharp. “The guards. Charles and Elias, your watchers. Did you hurt them?”

“What? No!” His voice rises, and his heart stutters at the mere implication. He feels breathless, almost like he’s been slapped. “I don’t do that sort of thing!”

This the wrong thing to say, for some reason. Her expression ices over. “Anymore,” Cassandra replies, and the word is delicate, precise, burning with old anger.

Varian grits his teeth and forces himself to calm down. The air between them has gone glacial, their distant camaraderie gone cold. “I didn’t hurt them,” he repeats. Ruddiger’s claws prick at the bare skin of his arm; at the uncomfortable sensation he closes his eyes and tries in vain to reign back his emotion. “I… I made a dummy. They still think I’m sleeping. It’s early enough, and my work schedule’s wild enough, that they… they won’t check. Or. I mean, they’ve probably already found out, but…”

“It’s a two-hour journey by horse,” Cassandra notes, watching him. Varian shrugs.

“Yeah.” He pauses, watching her face, then concludes, very quiet: “I don’t do that anymore. I’m not… like that anymore. I—I don’t want to be.”

Cassandra doesn’t reply right away; just stares out in the distance, shifting uncertainly on her feet. At long last, some final bit of tension eases from her stance. There’s still that same-old distant air, but when she looks back at Varian he can tell she’s listening now, giving Varian more consideration than her usual passing focus or suspicion. “What do you need me for?”

Varian glances at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re… going to help me?”

Her expression doesn’t really change, but one eyebrow lifts, and he gets the sense she’s judging him. “I didn’t say _that_.”

Varian closes his eyes before he reacts, biting back a sarcastic comment. Ruddiger’s claws poke through his shirt, weirdly cold against his skin. “Right, right, right. Okay. So, uh… have you heard about… the new house? Or my village?”

Cassandra tilts her head in thought. “The rebuilding of Old Corona village, soon to be renamed. Rapunzel’s mentioned it.”

“…Right.” Varian rubs at Ruddiger’s ear to give himself something to do, soft fur catching under his nails. His palms feel clammy and cold. Ruddiger chitters encouragingly up at him. “That’s what I need your help with. It’s… my dad got released by the doctors a few days back, we just really moved in, and I want to get him something—a, a homecoming gift? Late birthday gift? Combination of both, I guess.”

He chances a glance at Cassandra. She doesn’t react.

“Uh. So. I can’t exactly… I mean, I’m not allowed to use alchemy anymore, or… any machinery without supervision, and I know that’s kind of a time-killer for the guards, so I can’t make him something, and—and that’s fine, I get that. But what I did want to get him, it's…it's special.” He winces preemptively. “And… dangerous. And outside of Corona.”

He waits, and when she doesn’t reply, rushes forward with the rest of it. Nothing offered, nothing gained, right? “That’s… that’s why I need your help,” Varian finishes, at last. “I can’t get it on my own, even with alchemy; I’m next to useless without my more dangerous stuff, and I’m not allowed to make that—and I won’t because it’s too much trouble. And the guards won’t let me leave Corona on my own anyway. But you’re strong, and, and you’re trusted, so…”

Cassandra’s expression is inscrutable. “They might let you go if I’m the one supervising you.”

“…Basically.”

Cassandra taps her foot against the ground, lips pressed in a thin line, obviously thinking it through and clearly not very happy with the situation. Varian watches her face anxiously. Her brow is furrowed, fingers clenched in her sleeve. He can’t grasp what she’s thinking.

If it’d been Varian in her shoes, he knows he would have said no. They aren’t friends, really, no matter how easily they tend to fall into banter patterns. And even then, the jokes are more careful than casual. She doesn’t really have any reason to agree. But this is Cassandra, Varian knows. _Cassie._ And even at her worst, she’s always been a better person than him.

At last, Cassandra turns back to look at him. “That’s it?”

“Huh?”

“That’s it. That’s all you needed? That’s why you’re here? Because you need an _escort?_ ”

Sassing her won’t solve anything, he _knows_ that, but Varian can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “No, it’s also because I’m very physically weak and I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

She snorts at that. Then she shakes her head, sighing through her teeth. “…Fine.”

Varian jumps, straightening up fully in attention. “‘Fine?’ Wait, wait, you’ll—?”

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose and then tosses her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yes, I’ll help. But look, Varian. Anything dangerous outside of Corona could one day be a threat _to_ Corona; I want to know what that’s about. And your dad deserves some sort of reward for all the crap he’s been though these past few years. He helped a lot, with the Dark Kingdom and with you, and this is a good way to thank him. I  _suck_ at thank-you letters.” She gives Varian a pointed look. “So don’t inflate your ego or anything, alright? I’m not doing this for you.”

Varian can hardly breathe, he’s so happy. “Yes, yes, I know, whatever—you’ll help? Really?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and marches past him. He has to scramble out of the way to avoid getting knocked down again. “ _Yes_ , really.”

“Oh, wow,” Varian says, a bit numb. He… he hadn’t actually expected her to agree, at least not so soon. Hope flutters small and bright in his chest like a bird. “Wow. Um. Thanks?”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Cassandra reminds him, emphatic. Varian dips his head a rapid series of nods. Threat to Corona, giving his dad a break, Cassandra’s own probable restlessness at being cooped up in the castle—he knows the drill. It doesn’t stop his smile.

He does need Cassandra’s help for this. That isn’t a lie. But there is a reason Varian asked for _her_ help, alone, without any of the others.

In the months since Rapunzel’s marriage and the end to Corona’s seemingly exhaustive list of issues, Varian has worked tirelessly to come home. To return, as best he can. He has been sentenced, his father has been freed. He’s spoken to and forgiven—and been forgiven by—Rapunzel, he’s helped out Eugene and maybe gained a friend in Lance. He’s earned back their trust and friendship by the inches and the days, and even though he’s a long way from _home_ , still, to feeling like he’s home, he thinks that this is a good start.

The only person Varian has not spoken to—the only person Varian has done his upmost to avoid in those times—is Cassandra.

They aren’t enemies. They aren’t even really _against_ each other, not really. But Varian knows Cassandra doesn’t trust him. He understands that. He just wishes…

Well. It doesn’t really matter. He’s not entirely sure what he wants, all things considered—whether it’s to be proven trustworthy, as if her vote of confidence would make his whole change of heart more real, or if he just misses being her friend. Maybe it’s both. Either way…

He doesn’t know if this trip, abrupt as it is, will change anything. Maybe it won’t. But Varian can hope, can’t he? There’s nothing wrong with hope.

So he smiles, bright and real, and does his best to mean it, because there might be hope for them, too. Maybe he can prove himself worthy of her trust and friendship once again.

“Thanks,” he says, again, trying to impress the wealth of the gratitude he feels into such a short word. “Really, thanks, Cass _i_ —andra. Cassandra. Thanks, Cassandra.” He stutters on her name and forces a blinding smile, rocking back nervously on his heels.

Cassandra eyes him briefly for the near slip, then shakes her head and mutters sourly under her breath, either something along the lines of _vinaigrette gris_ or _I’m going to regret this._ Varian willfully chooses to believe it’s the vinaigrette. “Whatever. Come on, if we want to get out before midday, I’ll need your help with the horses.”

_That_ catches Varian off-guard. He just about trips over his own feet in his haste to catch up with her. Ruddiger scolds him furiously from his arms. “Wait, what? Are you—we’re leaving now?”

Cassandra tilts back her head to look at him. “Is there a reason you need to wait?”

His mind blanks. There’re the guards back home, no doubt panicking over his absence, but if he waits any longer… “No, not really.”

“Then we’re going now,” Cassandra says simply, waving one hand over her shoulder, and walks off without a second glance. Varian follows at her heels, Ruddiger still cuddled in his arms. He curls his fingers around the raccoon’s soft ears and tries to breathe. Ruddiger butts his face into Varian’s palm, and a smile pulls at his lips.

“See, buddy?” Varian whispers down to him. “Told you it’d work out.”

 

-

 

“Are you… okay?” Cassandra asks, hours later. Her voice is level, the words calm; there’s absolutely no hint that she’s probably been mulling on this question for hours now.

Sitting high on Fidela with a leather bag slung across his chest and Ruddiger perched like a king on his shoulders, Varian nods rapidly in response. His head bobs in the warming morning air, the wind cool against his neck. Beside him, Cassandra is on Maximus, with only a thin cord of rope to connect them, a lead for Fidela and Varian. Before them, the whole world shimmers as bright and as shiny as a mirage, late-night rains and an early morning fog coating everything in a thin and watery sheen. The land beyond Corona’s border wall is all flat and rolling hills, with short green grasses that wave delicately under the pale sunlight. In the distance, dark patches of far-off trees loom ever-closer.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Varian replies glibly, and even manages to make it sound confident— _of course everything’s okay, psssh, why wouldn’t it be?_ —except just then the horse clips a rock and the whole saddle just _bounces,_ ruining his cool and whatever poise Varian has managed to cling onto thus far.  

_Why why why why—_

Varian grips at Fidela’s reins so tightly he’s pretty sure his knuckles pop, and when he speaks again his voice has gone up another three octaves. “Yep! I’m fine! I’m totally cool, all is well! Everything’s just fine!”

The part of his mind not blanked out with panic bemoans the way his voice cracks. Varian hates puberty. He hates it _so_ much. Sure, he’s not going around giving dramatic villainous speeches anymore, but does he really have to sound like some child’s squeaky toy every time something alarming happens? Ugh.

Cassandra is watching him now, and Varian resists the urge to huddle up on the saddle. It’s a distinctly ‘pouting’ posture, and he’s _not_ pouting. Or scared. Or embarrassed.

“…You weren’t kidding about the ‘not able to ride a horse’ thing, were you.”

Okay, so maybe Varian’s a little bit embarrassed.

“Dad had a cart,” Varian admits, the words strained through his teeth. Maybe if he closes his eyes, it’ll be better? Except no, now he’s even more aware of the rocking and ohhhhh man, if Fidela wasn’t tethered to Maximus and he didn’t have to worry about steering… aaaah, nope, nope, don’t think about that. “And I kind of, um, walked to the castle on foot every other time I came, so…”

Cassandra doesn’t say anything about that right away, but he can hear her snort, and he pries open one eye to glare at her. “Five-hour journey on foot and I made in three, shut up, that’s impressive,” he tells her, and this time she actually rolls her eyes at him.

“Sure, kid.”

“No, really, in a blizzard and everything, who cares about riding horses, that’s _cool_ —”

The horse abruptly rocks again, and Varian abruptly finds himself clinging at its neck, making small noises in his throat that don’t quite count as words. “Hate this,” he whispers through his teeth. “Hate, hate, hate…”

Cassandra shakes her head at him in a way that once would have made him try to sit up straight and pretend nothing was wrong. Except—well, he’s not exactly looking to impress her anymore; and he doesn’t have anything to prove… so really, why bother? Varian swallows the impulse down and keeps clutching the reins, and lists the chemical components of the black rocks in his head in the hopes of a distraction.

Ruddiger nuzzles his face and makes a bunch of chittering noises. Ruddiger is a good friend.

He can’t tell if Cassandra is laughing at him or not, but her expression is the least icy it’s been since the journey started. “With luck, it won’t be much longer,” she tells him, and turns her eyes forward once more. “We’re only an hour out from Velenicia.”

He blinks at her. “You know the exact distance to—?”

“I know every major foreign city near Corona,” Cassandra replies dryly, and lifts her shoulders in a casual shrug.

“...Oh.” Guard duty, right—Varian probably should have guessed. “Um. Okay, so that’s probably right, but—I kind of, uh, fudged the destination? A bit?”

Cassandra goes still, then snaps her head back to look at him. “You _what.”_

Varian throws up his hands to ward her off, then yelps and grabs at the saddle again when Fidela clips another rock. “Technically I was not lying! The ingredients I need, they’re _basically_ in Velenicia, just… more like, beside Velenicia? Not the main city, just… the trees, the woods nearby it, the farmlands and hills. Around there.”

Cassandra visibly considers this, the danger fading from her expression as she tilts her head, her eyes narrowing in remembrance. “…The trees near Velencia. You mean the black-wood apple tree groves?”

Varian brightens, surprised and delighted at her knowledge. “Yeah, that! Those trees are really interesting, actually, did you know their sap creates a kind of miracle growth? Only for trees, though, crops never worked well with it… regardless, the apples can actually be used for _so_ much, and they grow natively only in that area—”

“The Velenican black-wood apple tree forest,” Cassandra repeats patiently, “outside of the city walls, and known generally to be the home and hideout of numerous thieves and bandit groups within the Kingdom of Saporia. _Those_ black-wood apple tree groves.”

Varian’s smile falters and falls flat. He’d hoped she wouldn’t have known about that bit. “Um.” 

Cassandra’s glare is all ice.

“I _said_ it was dangerous,” Varian points out, shifting uncomfortably on the saddle. He can’t meet her eyes, and his face feels hot. It’s not that he lied to her, he just—hadn’t wanted to mention it. “That’s kinda why I couldn’t get this stuff without your help.”

Cassandra’s hands clench at the reins and he watches her bite back some no doubt painful words, sighing through her teeth in a sharp whistle. “Varian. You should have _told_ me.”

“Would you have agreed if I had?”

Her expression goes tight and cold. “That’s not the point!”

Varian flushes darkly, looking down at his hands. “I— you’re right. Sorry.”

Cassandra mutters under her breath, yanking at Maximus’s reins, then lifts a hand and pinches at the bridge of her nose. “Ugh, stop looking at me like that. We’ll keep going. I said I would help, and we’ve gotten this far.” She rubs at her eyes, teeth grit in pained irritation. “Just—damn it, Varian, do you always have to be _difficult?”_

He winces. “…Sorry. I really should have—I just—” He stops and sighs. “Sorry. Old habits.”

Cassandra rubs at her eyes for another few seconds then finally drops her hand with a deep-seated sigh. “Ugh, never mind.” She lifts her head and pins Varian with a pointed look. “When this ordeal’s over, you better tell me what’s so great about these apple trees.”

“They have really great apples?” Varian offers, relaxing a bit.

Cassandra does not look impressed. “Good enough to risk death by Saporian bandit turf wars?”

“Velenician ciders are award-winning, I’ll have you know,” Varian replies loftily, tilting up his chin, and bites back a grin when Cassandra scoffs. He can’t quite see it, but he can hear the smile in her voice, reluctant though it might be. “But no, seriously, I have reasons. I’ll explain when I have the gift proper, deal?”

Silence, as she considers this. And then Cassandra shrugs, sly and teasing, and her smile stretches wickedly. “You mean when you’re no longer riding the big scary horse?”

“…Yes. Get me off this thing.”

Cassandra snorts a laugh, short and surprised, and shakes her head again. Varian wonders if he’s imagining the miniscule warmth on her face, the almost teasing edge to her usual smirking expression. He beams at her back regardless.

Things still aren’t the same, he knows. They probably never will be again. But he can’t help but hope that maybe, even after everything—maybe they can still be friends. And even if not…

At the very least, Varian thinks, at least he can say he tried his best.

 

-

 

An hour later, just as predicted, Cassandra and Varian enter the black-wood apple groves.

Varian does not know how long the apple groves have existed, nor what events caused their creation. In his distant memory he can remember old stories, something about a famine and foreign seeds and a whole lot of luck, but the details overall are lost to him. Regardless, even after all these centuries, the apple groves are something of a marvel. Great clusters of trees in a near-perfect circle, the one area of note in a land mainly categorized by rolling green hills and a distinct lack of mountains. The groves are so big they could almost count as a forest, as vast and as wide as the Saporian city of Velenicia that Varian can see in the far-off distance. The trees are tall and spindly, dark against the pale blue horizon like the long pikes of a twisted iron gate. The earth is soft mud, becoming more like sludge under the horses’ hooves with every step, the soil loose and shifting and dotted with white flecks.

Despite the midday heat, the air under the shade of the apple trees is icy cold and just as merciless as a winter frost. It burns his throat with every inhale, the spring-summer heat held back by the thick layers of foliage, the heavy canopy keeping the cold locked down within. His skin crawls, and Varian carefully pats down Ruddiger’s head, keeping the raccoon small and hunched on his shoulders, hopefully out of sight. It’s not just the cold that makes his skin crawl, or his spine prickle. There is a weight here, the sense of being watched. They aren’t welcome.

Varian twists his hands in Fidela’s reins, drawing the horse closer to Maximus—and to Cassandra. She nods briefly at him, expression set and focused. She has one hand resting lightly—dangerously—on the hilt of her sword.

As they draw deeper into the groves, Varian tenses, rubbing at Ruddiger’s ears to keep himself from fidgeting. The trees loom straight and tall above them, twisted branches creating an intricate roof over their heads. The leaves are dark and flush, full and bursting in the spring season. The fruit hangs heavy and high on the branches, bowing dark limbs to the earth. Their trunks are so wide and the trees have grown so close to one another, that beyond the path he can hardly see ten feet in front of them. Anything could be hiding out there. Any _one._

As if on cue, a loud _snap_ echoes in the still air. Varian freezes. Cassandra draws Maximus to a halt and tightens her grips on the sword. On his shoulder, Ruddiger is hunched and shivering, making small nervous noises in Varian’s ear.

Varian stares intently into the shadow of the trees, holding his breath. Shadows flicker at their sides, flitting between the gaps of the apple trees. There is a smattering of soft laughter weaving through the air, the low murmur of a small group. With the heavy canopy and icy air, the world seems darker; twilight instead of midday, dangerous instead of marvelous.

And then, unmistakable, ringing out clearly in the silence: the sharp _shing_ of a drawn sword.

“Now, now. Who might you be? It’s not often we get… visitors.”

Varian and Cassandra exchange a glance, and say nothing. Bandits slide out of the woodwork. They step out from behind the trees and reveal themselves on the higher branches. Footsteps echo at their back. Varian cannot tell how many they are, but he knows that they have Cassandra and him surrounded.

One man steps out to the path—clean-shaven and well-dressed like a merchant, but his smile is oily and his blue eyes are like a gas-burner flame. He holds a sword in one hand, the silver blade cast in deep shadow; the other he extends like an offering.

“It’s no matter, I suppose,” says the bandit, the first and only one to have spoken. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we? Give me your valuables and your horses and we shall discuss the terms for your life, hmm?”

Varian considers him, then tilts his head and smiles right back. He knows how to play this game. “I dunno. I have a _horrible_ track record with friendships. Besides, _friend,_ those aren’t very sporting terms for a deal.”

The bandit’s smile flickers and then fades, drawing back into a frightful bare of his teeth. “Haha! A funny one. How cute.” His teeth clench. “I don’t think I like you.”

“The feeling’s probably mutual,” Cassandra cuts in, and while her voice is light and airy, there’s a gleam in her eyes that’s all thrill. Varian leans away from her, eyeing her carefully. “How long do you need?”

It takes Varian a moment to realize she’s talking to him. “Not long,” he replies, forcefully drawing his attention away from the bandit, trying not to laugh at the deep offense on the man’s face at being ignored. Take that, jerk. “I could finish this in a second.”

“Hurry up, then, you’ve already wasted ten of mine,” Cassandra says, and before Varian can ask her what _that’s_ supposed to mean, she draws her sword and swings off the saddle in one fluid and expert motion that ends with her kicking the lead bandit in the face.

The man goes down like a sack of potatoes. Everyone freezes.

“…Ouch,” Varian says. He’s kind of glad she never kicked him in the face when they were enemies, now. That looked like it _hurt._

Cassandra tilts her drawn sword towards the other bandits, the tip of her blade shining the diffused sunlight of the grove. “Anyone else?” she asks, a wicked grin on her face, and then she glances back at Varian and calls, “And you, get going already!”

“I’m going, I’m _going!_ ” Varian says, and slides off the horse without any further commentary. He stumbles upon dismounting, a momentary misstep, and then rushes off into the brush. All the trees around them are tall and healthy, but he finds his eyes drawn to a giant black-wood tree deeper into the cluster, a giant so tall it must be nearly ancient, as thick as a well and with numerous branches hanging sodden and heavy with fruit, ripe and unpicked apples within easy reach. It’ll work wonderfully.

On her end of things, Cassandra seems to have the bandits covered. She hasn’t changed at all, Varian thinks with a small grin, or if she has, then she’s only gotten better. Varian’s old infatuation with Cassandra is long gone after everything that has happened, not that she’d ever return it—but above all else, whether he saw her as a stranger or enemy or momentary crush, Cassandra has always been _so_ cool.

Trusting Cassandra to keep the bandits distracted, Varian slides down a small hill on his heels and drops to the dirt. On the ground within reach, there are numerous apple husks: some eaten, some rotten, some fresh. He digs up a good handful of the mostly-intact fruit, and picks off more from the closet branches, and settles both handfuls into his side-bag. Then, with one last guarded glance at the fight behind him, he gathers up a handful of the wet soil before digging until he finds the heavy white roots of the apple tree.

Varian digs out a tool from his bag and saws off a large section of the root, placing it into his bag alongside the other ingredients. Apples, soil, tree root. All that’s left is the sap. He takes the small tool knife back out and starts the task of digging it into the bark, trying to squeeze past the unbreaking wall. He’s only just gathered a few oozing droplets of the green sap when Ruddiger starts hissing.

Varian pauses, fumbling with the vial in his hands. The sound of clanging metal is drawing closer. He can’t see how the fight is going, but he’s positive that Cassandra is probably winning, so then why is—

“Varian!”

“Got you, little brat!”

Varian jumps, startled, but he reacts too late to escape the reaching hands. Ruddiger lunges up at his attacker and is swept aside in one blow, and before Varian can scramble away, a powerful arm loops around his neck, pressing hard against his throat in a solid chokehold. Something cold and thin pokes against his side, an uncomfortable prick of pain.

“Ruddiger!” Varian tries to say, and the arm presses hard against his windpipe, cutting off the shout before he can finish. Something digs into the small of his back—a knife?

“Shut up,” a voice hisses. Soft-spoken but scratchy from smoke—the bandit from earlier, the one Cassandra had kicked in the face. The man yanks Varian away from the tree and that sharp something digs in painfully against his back. Definitely a knife, then, not yet pressing deep enough to draw blood, but _unquestionably_ uncomfortable. One wrong move and Varian gets speared.

Oh, for the love of—Varian’s been taken as a hostage. He can’t believe this. That was so _stupid!_ He’d been so excited over his find that he’d totally forgotten the bandits might go after him, too. Yet again, tunnel vision has become his downfall. It just figures.

“Stop _moving,_ kid!”

“Like hell!” Varian snaps back, immediately fighting the man’s grip for all he’s worth. He kicks out his legs and flails wildly, struggling to get free. At seventeen he’s unfortunately not much taller than he was at fourteen, just _lanky_ , which means his feet are completely off the ground and the bandit is holding him up effortlessly. It’s _unfair,_ is what it is, and he can’t loosen the grip at all because of it.

Cassandra, a few feet away and surrounded by the unconscious forms of the other bandits, looks calm and almost steady despite the situation. Her hand is white-knuckled on the hilt of her sword. “Are you serious?”

“Drop the sword, lady, or I’ll gut the kid!”

“I’m—seventeen!” Varian gasps out, a bit offended, and the bandit shakes him.

“Shut up! You, lady, I said drop the sword!”

The knife digs into his side again, and Varian winces, biting back his next insult. He meets Cassandra’s eyes from across the distance, her cold expression, her smile that is more snarl than grin. She doesn’t say anything, and for a moment—just for a moment, Varian thinks that she’s going to refuse.

The knife burns cold against his back. His breath rattles in his chest.

Cassandra drops the sword.

Varian nearly chokes on his relief, shaking from head to toe. His eyes are burning, his mouth thick with unsaid thanks. The bandit’s hold is so tight that any more pressure and Varian won’t be able to breathe.

“Your other weapons, too,” the bandit says, and gives Cassandra a nasty smile.

“Fine,” Cassandra says, reaching to her side. She draws a dagger, a mace, another short sword, her bow and a few arrows. Under the bandit’s sharp eyes, she lays out each weapon carefully in the dirt, left just out of her reach. Each weapon she places down slowly and deliberately, with aching cautiousness. Varian holds his breath.

It happens so fast he barely has time to blink. One moment Cassandra is lying out yet another dagger in the dirt—and then, in the next instant, she’s back on her feet and throwing a solid stone pebble right at the bandit’s head.

The rock bounces solidly off the bandit’s skull with a heavy thunk. The grip on Varian’s throat loosens, and Varian scrambles away before the bandit can regain the presence of mind to stab him, dancing out of reach and sweeping Ruddiger off the ground and out of the way. The bandit swears loudly and stumbles towards him, staggering heavily now—wow, Cassandra must have _seriously_ nailed him—but he’s still awake, teeth grit in a snarl and hands reaching out.

Varian swings Ruddiger up onto his shoulders and kicks up a stick from the ground, a long branch maybe a few feet longer than his old staff. He catches the branch in one hand and swipes for the man’s ankles. At the same time, Cassandra picks up her dagger, shifting her hold on the grip—and as the man trips and stumbles at Varian’s hit, in the moment before he regains his balance, Cassandra brings her dagger hilt down hard on his skull.

The bandit drops face-first in the mud, groaning. He doesn’t get up.

Varian breathes, hands shaking around his makeshift weapon. Nothing happens.

The branch drops from numb fingers, and Varian rocks back on his heels, giggling breathlessly in the abrupt quiet that’s fallen over the grove. “Well!” he manages at last, and forces down a smile that’s more spite than sporting. “This was… anti-climactic.”

Cassandra snorts at that, flipping the dagger in her hand and sliding it back into the sheath. “What were you expecting, something more heroic?”

For some reason that makes Varian think of Maximus swooping in, frying pan wielded like a sword to save the day, and the mental image makes him laugh. He tilts back his head and grins at her. “I don’t know. Something cool, I guess. Legendary bandit forest, feared by all, Velenican apples held hostage—and, what, we just get ambushed by like twenty old guys?” He sighs heavily and kicks at the downed bandit’s leg. “What a rip-off. There’s no quality bad guys these days.”

“What, think you might take up your old profession?”

“Are you kidding? With mooks like these? I’d be arrested within the week. Total waste of everyone’s time.”

“You could go solo.”

“Wouldn’t that make me a rogue,” Varian muses, “instead of a proper bad guy?”

Cassandra huffs a laugh, shaking her head as she leans down to start tying up the bandits. In a fit of cruel humor, she seems to be tying them all to each other. One big wheel of bandits. Varian imagines them rolling down a hill and bites back a giggle.

“I don’t know,” Cassandra says at last, yanking at the ropes. “You’re the one with experience, remember?” She leans back on her heels, surveying her work on the bandits, then nods approvingly and smacks the dust off her hands with a wide grin that’s all teeth. “Besides, this little brawl was plenty exciting for you. I mean, a hostage situation—pretty dangerous stuff.”

Varian splutters at this, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “Wha—I had it handled!”

“Sure, kid.”

“No, really! Another minute and I would’ve knocked down that jerk on my own terms. I had a totally plausible escape plan.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Attack monster Ruddiger. Poor bandit wouldn’t have stood a chance. Really, you were doing him a favor.”

Cassandra looks at where Ruddiger is currently busy fussing with Varian’s hair. Varian pulls his bangs free from Ruddiger’s claws and pushes down his head when the raccoon starts to scold him.

“I can see that,” Cassandra says, and yeah, okay, now she’s definitely laughing at him.

Varian mutters darkly to himself and stomps back to his bag so he can hide his face from view. His bag is still lying there on the ground where he’d dropped it, and he picks it up and checks inside before slinging it back over his shoulder.

He takes a deep breath and fiddles with the strap, his smile fading. The banter is fun, but that’s not what he really wants to say. He gathers his nerve.

“Thanks,” Varian says at last, and his voice falters, breaking on the sincerity. “For, um, saving me.”

Cassandra is quiet, and when he turns back to look at her, packed and ready to go, her expression is inscrutable. “What, did you think I’d just let them stab you and be done with it?”

Varian shrugs, noncommittal, looking back down and fiddling once again with the strap, catching his nails on the soft leather. Ruddiger coos from his shoulder, and he smiles weakly, reaching up to scratch at the raccoon’s chin. “No, just… I don’t know. Thank you.”

_It’s the sort of thing a friend would do,_ Varian wants to say, but he bites the words down, because that’s not really true, and he’s too afraid to ask her. He’s too afraid to say it. All the sharp humor and careful distance—but this is the first time in years he’s ever really talked to her without someone else as a buffer. The banter comes easily. But he doesn’t know, not quite, if that means they can still be friends.

He misses being her friend, even if he was more awkward acquaintance than a real companion. Still, he thinks—didn’t they get along? It had been _fun,_ and that’s what he remembers most of all, besides the silly crush and his own foolishness. “Co-ladies-in-waiting” and yeah, _okay,_ maybe that whole thing was a little silly, but… wasn’t that the best part? It was silly. Silly like the things you did with friends, inside jokes and teasing.

He’s too afraid to ask her though—to admit, however offhand, how much he misses being her friend. And so, Varian shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting and spins away on his heel, fast-walking back to the horses before Cassandra can reply to his thanks.

“Let’s get going,” he says, and keeps his voice bright. “I got what I needed, and I _really_ don’t want to stick around and see if those guys—” He jerks his thumb back to the bandits, “—have any friends.”

“That’s doubtful,” Cassandra says easily, and doesn’t question the subject change, though her eyes are sharp. “But yeah, we should probably get going if we want to get back before dark. Unless your gift requires a certain time of day?”

The thought of his gift, and his dad’s face if this works, succeeds in bringing back Varian’s good mood. “Oh, no, there’s nothing like that. You’ll see. It’s going to be _so cool_. Trust me, it’s a scientific achievement for the ages! Crops will never be the same again! _Food_ will never be the same again!”

“That’s the most worrying thing you’ve ever said to me,” Cassandra informs him drily, and the awkward tension between them fades away as if it never was. She swings up on Maximus’s saddle and pulls at the reins with a smile, and for a moment he can almost make himself believe her expression is friendly rather than polite.

“Let’s go,” Cassandra says, and just like that: they’re off.

 

-

 

The whole return journey takes another few hours.

By the time the Corona wall comes into sight, the sun is low and close to setting, the whole sky dyed brilliant shades of red and orange. Yellow light cuts a solid streak against the stained sky, darkness gathering in the edges of the horizon, long shadows cast across the green landscape. The kingdom border wall is an imposing sight, in this light—all dark stone and imposing stature, like a snake has coiled protectively around the kingdom, winding and endless.

Varian wraps his hands in the reins, looking up at the looming border wall. His house is over that rise. His new house, Dad and everything else: the guards, the village, and whatever scolding Varian’s going to get for sneaking out.

He breathes in deep through his nose and tries to calm his heart. It won’t do to panic now, after everything. Either his gift will work, or it won’t. There’s always a next time. There’s always a second chance. There’s always a shot at redemption, and Varian just has to remember that.

“Nervous?”

He jumps at Cassandra’s voice, shifting in the saddle. Ruddiger is a warm weight against his neck. Varian casts his eyes to his hands and shrugs, silent.

“Don’t be,” Cassandra advises, her voice a little gentler now. “It’ll be fine.”

Varian rubs at his hands. “Haha. You sound so sure of that.”

“I am,” Cassandra says calmly. “Even if doesn’t work, you still tried. And I had fun, at least.”

Varian lifts his head at that, surprised. “You did?”

“Yep.”

He studies her expression, but there is nothing to suggest she is lying. Varian looks back down at his hands, this time with a smile. “Oh,” he says. “That’s good.” He clears his throat and takes a breath, trying for a joke. “Guess I make a pretty good co-adventurer after all, huh?”

Silence. Varian’s smile falters.

Cassandra doesn’t respond for a long time. The warmth has leeched from her tone. “I suppose.”

“…I’m sorry,” Varian says, finally.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Varian says, and hunches down on the saddle. He isn’t smiling anymore either. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have pushed. Sorry. That wasn’t really funny.”

She doesn’t answer, and Varian bows his head lower, closing his eyes tight. Ruddiger chitters softly in his ear, almost a question.

“I’m sorry,” Varian says again, at last. “I didn’t mean… I know that I, what I did…” He trails off and hisses through his teeth, frustrated. “I know you don’t like me much. I’m really happy you helped me today, and—and, I’m sorry, because I guess I kind of roped you into it. Because I wanted to be your friend again. Even though I knew you don’t want to be mine.”

He doesn’t dare look up from the saddle, from his hands, his fingers interlocked and trembling. “I guess, I just—I wanted the gift. But I also wanted to prove you could trust me.” He thinks back to the apple grove, and that brief moment where he had believed Cassandra would not help him—and winces. “But I guess I… didn’t really trust you, either. So. That didn’t really work out.” Varian closes his eyes. “Figures, right?”

At long last, Cassandra sighs. “Varian.”

He chances a glance at her face, feeling oddly ill. “…Yeah?”

“Do you know why I agreed to come?”

Possible danger to Corona, a thank-you to his dad, her own restlessness. The reasons rise up in his memory. Varian takes a deep breath as if to answer, and then suddenly finds himself with nothing to say. He closes his mouth, teeth clicking shut. A long pause follows. Cassandra’s face is unreadable.

“No,” Varian says quietly. “I guess I don’t.”

Cassandra shrugs minutely, her eyes casting away, looking to the horizon. “I’ve seen what happens with snap-judgements of someone’s character. And Rapunzel… she wants to give you a second chance. You’ve at least proven yourself worthy of one, after your help in the Dark Kingdom.” She turns and looks at him, eyes sharp. “And… Varian, I’ll be blunt. You’re a brilliant kid. You were then. You are now. I guess I just wanted to see if you could be a good one, too.”

His mouth is dry. “Oh.”

Cassandra’s smiles, thin and strained. “Yeah.”

“…So, then… how’d I do?”

Cassandra stares at him, then something in her expression gives, and she shrugs again. Something has lightened in her eyes, turned almost teasing. “Well. Not half-bad. I’d give you a moderate marking.” Her voice turns wry. “ _Don’t_ mislead me about a destination again.”

“Well, it wasn’t _really_ misleading, just—”

“I’m lowering your grade,” Cassandra remarks flatly, and Varian chokes down a laugh, shaking his head.

“Oh, ouch. Harsh judge.” He tries for a smile, and raises his head. “I’ll do better,” Varian promises quietly, and startles when Cassandra gives a soft snort that almost—might be—genuine laughter.

“For some reason, I can almost believe that,” she replies, bemused, and spurs Maximus forward. “C’mon, kid. If you’ve gone to all this trouble just for a couple of seeds and pile of dirt, you might as well show me what sort of chemical nonsense this housewarming gift is going to be.”

Varian stares at her retreating back and feels a smile flicker across his face. Ruddiger croons from his shoulder, a pleased little hum.

It’s not forgiveness, not really; he can’t begrudge her that right. But it is hope, and that’s more than Varian ever thought he’d get. Hope that one day, maybe—maybe she’ll forgive him fully. Maybe they can be friends after all. Co-ladies-in-waiting—part two, this time, sans betrayal and childish infatuation.

His smile grows, stretches wide across his face. Before him, Cassandra turns her face away, and he wonders if he’s imagining her smile, too. It’s barely even a faint curl at her mouth, but perhaps…

“Right,” he says, and Fidela spurs forward with a leap that makes him clench white-knuckled at the saddle. “By the way, also, it’s not nonsense. Just alchemy!”

“Always alchemy, with you.”

“I am a creature of habit. But look, okay, it’s going to be _awesome,_ I’ve been working out the properties and possible reaction for months in my head—all mathematical formula and probabilities, don’t you worry, no illegal alchemy working here—”

They left this kingdom in silence, but they return to the border wall with voice and conversation, and for a moment, Varian can almost make-believe that nothing has changed at all.

 

-

 

When they come up on the house, Dad is already waiting for him.

The new-Old Corona village, process of rebuilding all but complete, is a small town over the hill in, ironically, the plot of farmland his father had received from the king years before, on the day he was entombed. The village itself has been in-process for three years, but Varian’s house is the latest development—only ever needed recently, now that Quirin is free and Varian half-way to serving his sentence on house-arrest.

It’s smaller than he remembers his old home to be; only one floor, with no basement and no laboratory. Quirin is standing out front with his arms crossed, his expression conflicted, the guards beside him, all three talking in low tones. His dad looks pale-faced and sick. The guards look nervous. Varian winces as they approach.

Cassandra, in contrast, doesn’t even falter. She just marches right up to them on Maximus, one hand on her hilt, head high. The guards see her first—then, looking beyond her, finally spot Varian. He can see his dad’s face go white and wan, his eyes closing—it probably looks like Varian’s been arrested, and he scowls at his hands, throat tight. Ruddiger croons in his ear, soft and sad.

The guards, however, look confused. Varian on a horse, and no chains in sight—they, at least, know something else has happened.

Cassandra pulls up first. The guards go to her, eyes flickering between Varian and his father.

“How—how did you find him? We’ve been looking—”

“He was with me the whole time,” Cassandra replies, her voice cool and unconcerned, and swings off the saddle. “The search was unnecessary; the castle has been notified and approved the trip. He was helping me subdue some bandits out past the wall.”

“ _Him?_ ” the guard says, eyes flickering to Varian. “But—”

“He had his own reasons to help, obviously,” Cassandra replies blandly. “But his knowledge of the region and where we were heading was invaluable.” She glances at Varian briefly before her eyes return back to the guards. “I’m aware his escape and sleeping dummy plan was a breach in his parole, but I’ll excuse it this one time. If that’s all...?”

The guards exchange uneasy glances, and Varian stills, watching them carefully, hoping against hope that his stunt won’t cause Cassandra extra trouble. But instead of arguing against her words like he expects, or even going to question him outright, the two men just salute—sharp, pointed, perfect—and then, looking all the while like Cassandra has bashed them over the head rather than talk to them, they walk off back to their positions at the house gate.

Varian watches the guards retreat with a blank expression and then turns to fix Cassandra with a shameless stare, his eyes wide. “Those guys never get off my back! How did you _do_ that?”

Cassandra stares back at him, brows furrowed, before realization makes her eyes go wide. To Varian’s surprise, she starts to smile—small, at first, but quickly growing into a full-blown grin. “Did no one tell you? This whole time? I led the attack on your house, back when you kidnapped the Queen, remember? Then the whole fiasco with the Dark Kingdom. And then, of course, everything else after that…” She shrugs. “I got a good reputation, and proof of my skill. I’ve proven myself.” Her smile is bright and warm, a contented sort of pride. “I’ve been a full-time guard for a while now. Once Dad retires… it’s pretty much assured the rank of Captain is mine. I’ve been taking over some of his duties for months now.”

Varian blinks at her, stunned. He had known Cassandra held some influence in the castle, but he’d thought it was still due to her father and Rapunzel. To know that this has changed—that Cassandra has finally been recognized in her own right—it makes him feel funny. Happy, maybe. He never thought back to those early years much, when he was still fighting against them; at the same time, Varian has never managed to successfully forget them. He can remember clearly the way Cassandra once fought for the slightest bit of recognition, how the path to her dream was forever an uphill battle. To know that she has achieved that dream, at long last…

His smile is tentative but real, and painfully genuine. He’s happy for her. He really, really is. The past few years may have been their own sort of hell for Varian, but—he’s glad that something good came out of it all, something like this. “That’s great!”

For once, Cassandra smiles back. _Actually_ smiles, something warm and small, friendly rather than distantly teasing. “Thanks.”

“Varian!”

Varian startles upright, momentarily lost, before the voice registers and he whips around, feeling the color drain from his face.

In many ways, Quirin has not changed at all. His hair is still dark and streaked with gray, face the same as it is in his memories. The amber had preserved him perfectly, up until the day Varian and Rapunzel broke him out. The weight of those three long years weighs on Varian’s shoulders—but he cannot see any evidence of that lost time in Quirin. Maybe because of that, seeing his dad is still a surprise, even after all this time. Varian keeps forgetting that Quirin is actually here. Real and alive and, while horrified to learn of what happened in his absence… also just happy to have Varian around.

“Dad!” Varian says, and stamps down the urge to retreat. “Dad, I’m sorry, I—”

He barely gets the words out before he finds himself enveloped in a tight hug. His dad hugs Varian fiercely but briefly—then steps back, holding Varian at arm’s length. His face is pale and pinched, his eyes sunk deep in his face. The desperate relief and quiet fear in Quirin’s eyes make Varian’s heart ache.

“Varian,” Quirin says. “Are you hurt? What was that? Why did you…?”

“He was with me,” Cassandra interjects, stepping up to Varian’s side. “He’s not in trouble. He just wanted help.”

Quirin pauses, looking down at Varian. Varian gives a thin smile back. “Yeah. Sorry, though, I… I didn’t mean to worry you, Dad.”

Another awkward pause, and then Quirin sighs heavily, leaning down to wrap Varian in another bruising hug. Varian holds himself still, feeling every breath rattle in his chest. He feels lightheaded, almost struck. A knot strangles his throat. “You… Dad, you aren’t—mad?”

Quirin gives a broken sort of laugh, and his hand cups the back of Varian’s head, smoothing down his hair in a careful pat that Varian can’t remember him doing since Varian was a much younger child, when he was five years old and too scared to look under the bed. “No,” Quirin says. He still sounds tired, but a new life has returned to him, brightening his eyes, warming his voice. “No, son. I’m not mad.”

“Oh.” Varian stutters a bit, shuffling on his feet. He turns his head into his dad’s shoulder to hide his face, because he doesn’t want Cassandra to see him cry, and smiles against his Dad’s rough fur vest. “Oh. Okay.” He takes a deep breath and finally relaxes fully into the hug. “Okay.”

His dad hugs him even tighter, at this, and Varian closes his eyes, breath shuddering in his chest. They stay that way for a few moments more, silent and still, drinking in the contact, before Varian finally gathers up his composure and pulls away. His dad is back. His dad is _alive._ He can see him and hug him any time he wants, now. Varian has time.

Besides, after all this trouble, he really _does_ owe Cassandra some kind of explanation.

Varian turns to Cassandra and beams at her, ignoring the quietly pleased expression on her face. “Hey, can you toss me my bag?”

Cassandra considers him and shrugs, turning back to Fidela to unclip Varian’s leather-strap bag from where he’d hooked it on the saddle. She tosses it underhand to him, and Varian catches it onehanded. “Thanks!”

His dad is looking at the bag, something wary starting to flicker in his eyes. “Varian, what…?”

 “It’s—hard to explain,” Varian starts. “I have, I have something to give you, in a bit! I just have to make it, really quick, if you hold on…”

His dad steps back, watching Varian work, glancing uncertainly at Cassandra. “Ah, Varian, is this…?”

“It’s fine,” Cassandra says. “I’m supervising.” She pins Varian with a meaningful look. “This one time.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Varian says, dismissively, already fumbling with the items inside the pack. He can’t help but grin at her, though. “I know the rules, no worries.”

It takes him a few minutes to put everything together—he had set up the other main ingredients this morning, before sneaking out, so all he has to do is run into the kitchen to grab a few extra things, matches and burners and some minerals. He checks them with Cassandra each time, if only to prove to her that he’s really not up to anything dangerous. Well, her and Quirin. She doesn’t seem so worried, but his dad…

He’ll understand, soon. Varian just hopes nothing goes wrong. Please, Universe, let him have this.

It really doesn’t take long at all. His materials mixed and in place, the location of his eventful gift chosen, Varian starts the show. He takes one of the full and freshy-picked apples from the bag and kneels down in the mud, sticking that small red fruit deep in the earth, planted securely with handfuls of the Velenician white-flecked soil. Then he takes the concoction he’s mixed up from the root and sap and other ingredients, and carefully pours the whole mixture on the buried apple patch.

He waits until the very last drop of that glowing gold mixture had vanished into the soil, and then steps back and out of the way, beside his dad and Cassandra once more. He watches the gold sink beneath the earth, and he waits.

The reaction is instantaneous.

A small green sprig pokes up from the soil, thin and trailing like a vine. Even as Varian watches, the green shoot coils in the air, thickening and darkening to a pale brown, the tops splitting up like fine hairs and trailing out into branches. Leaves burst out and coil into flowers, then fall, then cycle anew, growth and regrowth over and over, branches twining and thickening into something solid and real. The sapling grows up and out, the earth crumbling under an attack of new white roots, the newly formed branches stretching out to the sky. The plant climbs up and up—taller than Varian, taller than Cassandra, taller than Quirin, until it eclipses even the new house. The pale brown darkens and stiffens, hardening into the namesake black-wood bark that makes these trees so distinct. Flowers bloom to the outstretched branches, curling into themselves and unfolding red apples about the size of Varian’s fist, the heavy fruit bowing the branches.

With a slow, laborious creak, the tree finally settles. The branches halt mid-twist. The remaining flower petals drift down to the ground like a soft rain. Before them a full-blown apple tree rests as if it has lived there for years, centuries of growth in an instant, helped along by a little chemical reaction.

“Okay,” Cassandra says finally, sounding breathless. Her eyes are wide. “I… I’ll admit it, kid. That was pretty damn cool.”

The spell of silence breaks, and Varian bounces on his heels, delighted by the praise. It worked. It worked!

“It _worked_ ,” Varian says, ecstatic at the results. “It’s… it’s a black-wood Velenician apple tree. It worked!” He turns to Cassandra and smiles so wide it hurts his cheeks. “Did I ever mention that neither of my parents are originally from Corona?”

Cassandra stares at him, for once wide-eyed with surprise, and then looks to Quirin. Varian’s dad is staring at the tree with wide eyes, looking stunned, but at Varian’s comment, he shakes himself and gives a soft laugh. His eyes are bright with unshed tears. “His mother,” Quirin tells Cassandra, voice going soft with the memory. “I met her on my way migrating to this kingdom. Winter storms required I stay in Velenicia… and when I left, she came with me.” His smile is small and shaking. “She loved those trees, though. They’re native only to a few certain areas in and around Velenicia, but she took a sapling with her when we… when we came here. Planted it right outside our house.”

“The rocks destroyed it,” Varian tells Cassandra lowly. “Just like they destroyed everything else. So I… I thought, that m-maybe I could… well, I mean, I mentioned the sap has some kind of miracle-growth properties, right? They mature fast, for trees. I thought, if I could maybe, um, speed it up, then…” He trails off, and chances a look at Quirin. “Do you like it?”

His father lets out a disbelieving laugh. “It looks… it’s wonderful, son. It’s her tree.” He reaches out a hand and places it on Varian’s head—just resting, a warm weight like approval. “It’s perfect, Varian. Thank you.”

Varian takes a breath, smiling wide, and rockets forward to crash into his dad for a hug. Quirin catches him easily, chuckling quietly, his arms warm against Varian’s back.  Varian is still small enough to hide against his dad’s shoulder, and he takes full advantage of it, letting himself take in the hug fully, just for once. He’s not a kid anymore, not really—but he tucks his head into Quirin’s shoulder and pretends, if only for a moment, that nothing has changed.

He did something right. _Finally,_ he’s done something right.

It’s only when he hears the crunch of gravel and a low nickering of a horse that Varian pulls away, slipping out of the hug and spinning on his heel. Cassandra has moved back, probably to give them some space, and she’s already laced up both horses for the return trip. Behind her, the sky is dark orange like amber, burning against her silhouette. She can’t stay for much longer.

“I’ll be right back,” Varian tells Quirin, then drops Ruddiger in his dad’s arms and races to Cassandra’s side.

“Cass—Cassandra—”

Cassandra looks up from where she’s tightening Maximus’s saddle straps, glancing over. “Yeah?”

Varian trips on the words and on his tongue, trying to find his voice past the rising knot in his throat. “T-thanks. For. For helping me.” For giving me a chance, he doesn’t say, but he thinks she can hear it.

Cassandra surveys his face, and then, to Varian’s surprise—she smiles, again, something warm instead of teasing. Not as distant as she used to be. “Call me Cass,” she tells him finally, and when Varian startles again, she smiles faintly and hefts herself up on Maximus’s saddle, pulling up on the reins. “All my friends do. But next time you want a favor from me, I want a warning, got it?”

“Right,” Varian says, feeling a little stunned. “T-that’s… okay. Okay. Thanks, Cassi—Cass.”

She hums and pulls at the reins, drawing Maximus and Fidela away from the house, turning to the road. “I can’t stay much longer. The show was nice. Let me know if you ever figure out how to make that solution work for crops; it’d help a lot, I think.” She hesitates, and then glances back at Varian over her shoulder. “And Varian?”

He looks up at her.

“…You make a pretty good co-adventurer after all.”

Varian sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes going wide. Cassandra smiles back at him and turns away, nodding to herself, then guides Maximus into a trot. She is out of ear-shot before Varian finds the breath to speak; out of sight before any words come to mind.

Varian watches her go, and his smile stretches wide and bright across his face.

Hesitant footsteps crunch in the gravel behind him, and Quirin places a tentative hand on Varian’s shoulder. “Varian? Is everything…?”

“Everything’s fine,” Varian says, quietly. He takes a deep breath and wipes roughly at his eyes, and turns to Quirin with a smile that stretches ear to ear. “Everything’s… okay. Yeah.” He gives a little disbelieving laugh and laughs harder when Ruddiger jumps up into his arms and croons. His fingers curl in soft fur, and Varian smiles, his heart so full it could burst.

“Everything’s just fine, Dad.”

Quirin squeezes at his shoulder and moves back to the house, and Varian follows. The tree casts long shadows across the side, sunlight dappling through the dark green leaves. There’s no stream, and the house is smaller, and it isn’t where the old tree used to be, isn’t the tree his mother planted and cared for, the tree he grew up under—but its close enough, and for a moment, it’s almost like nothing has changed at all.

For a moment, it’s almost like coming home. And maybe it is.

Varian steps inside his new house, his dad just behind him and Ruddiger by his side, and finally lets himself come home.


End file.
